The Art of You
by ItsClydeBitches221B
Summary: How did the sled get up onto the hill?


"It's not just red," Jonas murmured, almost to himself. He startled slightly when agreement sounded behind him.

"Many things are red and more," the Giver said. He shuffled over to the bookshelves, turning only briefly to look back at his Receiver. "Is this a general observation or are you thinking of something in particular, Jonas?"

Jonas sat up, nodding. His bare chest felt hot, his whole body aching from the memory of 'exhaustion.' It was a feeling that went far beyond the recreational activity he was used to in the Community and Jonas could still feel his muscles shivering from those miles he hadn't run, his head pounding from the heat he hadn't truly experienced. They'd decided that he'd had enough for one day, yet Jonas was reluctant to return to his family just yet. Thinking—remembering—had felt more… appealing.

"The sled," Jonas said, realizing he'd been quiet too long. It was another aspect of the Community he was learning to recognize: everyone should think carefully about their language, but waiting too long to respond was considered rude. The Giver encouraged silence almost as much as he encouraged questions and Jonas was still getting used to both.

"I was thinking a lot about the sled."

The Giver smiled. "And how it's not just red?"

"Yes. It's red. And brown. But also…" Jonas bit his lip, frustrated. "It's more than either of those things. The color, I mean. The texture too. I hate—" He cut himself off, thought about his words, then decided that was exactly what he wanted to say. "I _hate_ that I can't describe the sled. Not how it really was. Is."

The Giver sighed, finally wandering back over to sit on the couch next to Jonas. "Not that you have anyone to describe it to," he said sternly, but his expression quickly melted back into gentleness. "I was wondering when we'd get to this. Tell me, Jonas, how would you describe this?"

He held up one of the books he'd been replacing, heavy in his old hands. Jonas gazed at the cover.

"It's red," he said.

"Yes, but what else?"

Jonas tilted his head. The cover was otherwise bare. The Giver immediately picked up on his difficulty because he nodded, hefting the book.

"Let's pretend that you're describing this book to me," he said. "Someone who already knows what the color red is, but I've never seen this particular volume." The book was hidden away behind his back. "How would you describe this _kind_ of red?"

Jonas opened his mouth to say that it was just red, like any red, but the moment the thought crossed his mind he knew it was wrong. The books' red…

"It's not like the sled' red," he said slowly. "This red, it's more… dull." Jonas blinked, wondering where that description had come from.

The Giver broke into a smile. "Excellent. What else?"

"I don't know. It's just… different. The sled seems brighter, especially against the snow. The book doesn't look like Fiona's hair though either." Embolden, Jonas swung his legs underneath him, bouncing slightly as he thought it through. "Fiona's hair has… has… _other_ colors in it. Like orange! Not everywhere though. The lighter parts run through her hair, like those waves you showed me. They curve. And they change depending on whether she's inside or out in the sun. They're not the same kind of red at _all_."

The Giver nodded all the way through, bringing the book back around to trail fingers lovingly over the spine. "Like a wave," he murmured. "Yes. Quite apt, Jonas. What you're engaging in is a form of art."

"Art?" he scooted forward.

"Before samness, we worked hard to understand the world. We wanted ways to say, 'we are here,' figure out _why_ we're here, and do it all in a way we find beautiful." The Giver stood, gesturing to the library surrounding them. "People devoted their lives to recording things, not just accurately, but beautifully. We used colored liquids to visually document all manner of things, people devoting years of their lives to finding that perfect kind of red for their pieces. Writers worked to describe scenes their readers had never seen—things that sometimes never existed—exactly as you did just now. Seeing things anew. That is art." The Giver lowered his arms, gaze trained on the highest shelf. "Perhaps I should show you some fiction…"

Jonas was silent. He wasn't sure he understood all that. There were still a number of words he hadn't learned yet and there was so much… emotion in the Giver's words. He didn't know the words for those emotions either.

"I like that," he admitted to his knees. "Describing Fiona's hair."

"We all like that," the Giver said, seemingly to himself. He was shuffling through things on a small desk. "Art is perhaps the Community's greatest loss. The need to combine or even prize beauty over practicality, it's as natural as our breath, and it hasn't been erased. Not yet. Not entirely. It's why we still plant flowers. Why you naturally struggled with shades of red—ah."

The Giver pulled down a book, but then immediately replaced it. Jonas craned his neck and saw that he'd slipped out a blank piece of paper. He took up a pencil and extended them both.

"Tell me, Jonas," he said. "Where did the sled come from?"

Jonas thought back. "The hill."

"Yes, but how did it get on the hill? Surely you understand that sleds are man-made. Was there anyone else in the memory?"

"No." His brow furrowed.

"Then how did the sled get there?"

This time the Giver didn't wait for his answer. He approached once more, pressing the paper and pencil into Jonas' hands. His older hands trembled as he released the tools.

"Tell me," the Giver insisted. "I don't need the memory anymore to know that it begins at the top of the hill. You don't know where the sled came from, but _tell me anyway_. It's called imagination, Jonas, and it's perhaps our greatest form of wisdom—and the greatest threat to sameness."

Jonas stared at the blank paper. He didn't think he'd ever seen that before. Paper always had data or instructions on it, lines and letters for students to copy. The whiteness of it (a different white than snow) seemed both daunting and exhilarating.

"How?" he whispered.

"You make it up. Trust me, Jonas, this is a skill better learned through doing. You cannot receive it. Not like a memory." The Giver held up his hands. "Or don't try. Do nothing. Imagination is not a requirement of your training." With that he returned to his desk, refusing to say another word.

Jonas thought of going home. It was nearly time for dinner. He could eat, speak quietly with his family, sleep, share dreams…

It occurred to Jonas then that he could easily picture everything that was likely to happen through tomorrow morning, down to the tinniest detail. There was little variation there. At home.

Make it up?

Slowly, Jonas leaned the paper against his knee and picked up the pencil.

As it was, Jonas missed dinner entirely that night. Which was okay. As Receiver he was allowed to miss meals for his training and the Giver had requested that his portions be transferred here, all done quietly so as not to disturb him.

For Jonas was writing, for the first time outside of his lessons in letters. He didn't quite understand _what_ he was writing, but Jonas thought that he enjoyed it.

There was a boy, girl with hair a very specific kind of red, and together they took a sled up onto a hill….


End file.
